Why do you love Little House? It’s a simple question, but I doubt there is a simple answer. So many of us come to our fandom through different channels. If someone asked you, would you be able to answer readily?
Today I had the opportunity to address a topic, albeit informally, of women I look up to. Laura was of course at the top of the list (along with, incidentally, Annie Sullivan and Helen Keller, the latter of whom was portrayed by — say it with me — Melissa Gilbert, in what was pretty much my favorite TV movie of all time). And because I learned to love Laura as a child, I thought about what it was that drew me to her. I wasn’t required to read the books in school, and I had no peers who were fans. What was it that made me the only Laura Ingalls Wilder fan I knew?
It’s not necessarily what one would expect. I don’t know that there’s an “average” Laura fan, but if there is, I’m not it. I have a weakness for heavy metal music. Specifically Metallica. Sometimes I cuss too much. I don’t sew or quilt or knit — though lately I’m thinking I’d love to learn — and I didn’t learn to cook until I was married. I have no desire to wear a pinafore or a sunbonnet and am skeptical I ever will (though all bets are off if my daughter asks me). I’m not a history person. Pioneering life doesn’t interest me except as it relates directly to Laura. I’ve never longed to travel in a covered wagon or live on the prairie. (Visit? yes. Live? No.) As a child I had only one living grandparent, a Polish immigrant who had nothing to do with the American frontier. And despite my eventual marriage to an actual farmer — whom I didn’t come across until I was almost 30 — farming never held any appeal to me beyond the confines of the Little House pages.
So what was it?
For me, it was family. I wanted Laura’s Ma and Pa. I even wanted snobby sister Mary. I wanted to wake up in a house where everyone saying “Good morning!” made the morning good. I wanted to have a wise, gentle mother whose face and voice rarely betrayed emotion and who could control me by merely saying my name. I wished for a father who tickled me with his beard and played mad-dog and twinkled his eyes at me. (I have to admit, for a long time, lack of facial hair notwithstanding, Michael Landon fit the bill.)
It was also nature. Or more specifically, Laura’s outdoors. I wanted to see that circle of wolves. And although the covered wagon didn’t appeal to me, I coveted the view. I wanted to be in that circle’s exact middle. I dreamed of eating outside, listening to dickissels and lunching on food cooked in a spider. I wanted to be under the stars and able to follow the moonpath on a frozen lake. I wished I could pause on a summer evening with my hand over the chicks, sharing confidences with my mother. I wanted to know what it was like to glide over snow (isn’t “cutter” the coziest word?) in below-zero weather.
This, I see now, is why Laura wrote. Or at least, why she wrote for me. She wanted to share her family and her outdoor memories, because she knew they were worth it. She knew someone like me would read it and be thankful she committed her memories to paper.
You’re welcome, Laura says to me. You’re welcome.
So … why do you love Little House?